Back for two minutes because when I say I’m going to bed, I mean I’ll be watching True Detective there, right?
And I have something to say:
It starts with the Nicholas Cage film Leaving Las Vegas – like Elisabeth Shue’s character in that film, I would stay the hopeless course – there are many reasons why.
But, back to True Detective: McConaughey’s destruction-bent character is the same: it’s dark, but there’s a weird dignity and honour there, a dragon to slay and hopefully, as it goes down, suicide by dragon.
Sure, it’d be easier if the character just took himself out, but then there’d be no story and as Cole says: “I don’t have the constitution for suicide.”
If this were real, I’d pitch up every second sundown, drink a beer silently on the riverbank beside him, and then go home. Until he spoke, then I’d listen. And he’d still find no meaning, but he’d have a witness, a record – something.
It’s impossible to explain – but it’s like a lot of art, the scary kind of clarity, lives in tortured souls.